Alice
by Lord Purple Heart
Summary: She can tell her story through pen and paper or her lips if she so chooses. However, her story is best expressed the way it was told: through the keys of a piano, just like how he told his story.


Dear readers,

I would suggest listening to the song Inevitabilis from the OST of Puella Magi Madoka Magica by Yuki Kajiura if you want to get an idea about the song being played here. That was the song I was listening to when I wrote this and it may help with the imaging of the story and thusly bring you a more enjoyable experience. I will place a link to the video here for that purpose. However, if you feel that you know a song that may better fit the atmosphere, please use that song instead if you so choose.

With that, thank you for coming to read this oneshot. Enjoy!

Inevitabilis by Yuki Kajiura: watch?v=ISGDAXsS8c8

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 **Alice**

I remember seeing her come onto the stage and being bathed in the light like an angel, like someone from above, was watching her from the heavens. I would never forget how she looked when I first laid my eyes upon her form; she wore a simple white gown that shimmered like silk, her hair was a light chestnut brown that flowed downwards like a seamless river, and her skin was fairer than a fairy tale could describe.

What drew me in at the time were her eyes when she had looked to the crowd while walking onstage towards the sleek grand piano that stood there, the only other occupant on the stage. They had slid over everyone there as if the red seats of that theater were filled with nothing but oxygen as if she had not come here for the people that gazed upon her expectantly. Her eyes, a deep hazelnut brown, were mesmerizing like an abyss of sweet chocolate that threatened to suck my soul out of my body.

They were morose. They were dismissive. They were uncaring.

They were lonely.

I could barely remember her name because the mere sight of her had taken my breath away. No one around me could seem to detect the faint aura of loneliness that I could see clearly hanging over her like a dark cloud that was careful not to completely overshadow her. Instead, the cloud allowed some of the rays to seep through and give the young girl a taste of the light that glowed. However, those rays were merely absorbed into the vortex of emotion that was in her eyes.

For a moment in time, her eyes crossed over from person to person and met mine. For a moment in time, our gazes remained locked. I did not know what to do except remained seated and stare into her eyes. She seemed to stare back into mine, but the way she looked at me was different from the way anyone and everyone else had ever looked at me before in my life.

My mother had once told me that the eyes were the windows to the soul, but her eyes seemed to take in everything and give nothing back like a sponge.

Or worse, like a black hole.

She bowed her head once and I forgot that she had come here for a reason. As she turned around and began walking back towards the piano that accompanied her as the sole other thing onstage, I saw something change for an instant.

A small smile. A glint of something in her eyes.

Slowly, her expression began to change as she approached the piano and laid her hand on the black body of the instrument. As she slowly ran her fingers over the side, her eyes became gentle and dewy. I could see the very faint smile on her face grow by a fraction of a centimeter and I could feel my heartstrings being yanked hard at the sight of her beautiful smile. For what seemed like forever but was only a few seconds, she stood there and gazing fondly at the piano like it was her kin, like it was something that truly deserved her love and care.

Truly, seeing her face made me feel as if the piano was something I should love like a brother.

She took her seat slowly and gracefully, brushing the locks of her hair back once before she opened the fallboard and exposed the keys of the piano underneath. The light from the spotlight struck the piano and made each individual key glisten like polished marble and refined ebony as they were shown to the crowd, and I felt that it was only deserving of that girl to play such a beautiful instrument.

Silence was king in the theater for seemingly eternity; time passed like molten rock trickling over the side of a volcano. Everyone held their breath, waiting for what would happen next. I felt myself joining them subconsciously, waiting for the girl to begin her piece.

Begin it she did, and she did so gently. As her hands slowly rose to meet the keys, I felt every fiber of my being tense and my heartbeat sounded like it was striking my eardrums directly. I knew my blood was on fire and that I was leaning as far forward as I could, expecting her to begin her dance with melodies. Her hands immediately began to play a song, and I felt myself exhale greatly as I heard the notes flow into my ears.

It was a soft, simple melody that anyone could follow, appreciate, and listen to with ease. I felt my entire body begin to unwind as the notes entered my system and began to mingle with my soul. It took me a few seconds and a few blinks of the eyes to realize that I was already tearing up. I dabbed at my eyes to get rid of the tears and looked at the people sitting to my left.

Every single one of them, be they man or woman, old or young, was tearing up as well. I turned to the right, and the result was the same. I dared a glance behind me and it was no different.

In the span of a few seconds, this girl had taken the audience's hearts, enraptured them, and then began to drag them down a spiral of melancholy. As chords and keys followed one another in a flow of endless perfection, I felt the emotion that I had seen in her eyes being carried over into her slender fingers and resonating with the piano that she was now playing.

It was a heartbreaking melody despite its softness, like the tender cries of a lonely child that had lost a best friend or a favorite toy. However, I could feel the aura emanating from her onstage was far more than that. I felt only the melancholy of a child in my heart yet from the girl onstage, I could sense a feeling of loss, moroseness, and loneliness far deeper and stronger than the tallest of towers and the sturdiest of walls.

As I blinked back tears yet again, I suddenly felt the desire to keep my eyes closed make itself known to me. I did so, and I slowly began to see something emerging from the darkness of my eyelids: a castle. A tall, dark, and imposing castle that looked like it had been inspired by Gothic architecture. As I continued to gaze at this castle in my mind, I found myself walking through its doors and through its halls.

There were plenty of rooms in the castle; bedrooms; a library, a kitchen and much more. But despite these rooms, all the impressive furniture and all the paintings on the walls, I could not get a certain feeling out of my heart. It plagued me and lingered in my soul as I forced myself to turn around and leave.

As I passed by a hallway, I glanced down it and saw nothing but a mirror at the far end that seemed to stare back at me. Near it, I saw a black and white cat-like plush toy with a leaning against the frame of the mirror with a neutral expression.

It was an empty castle. And I could not escape the loneliness it brought to me.

Suddenly, it was over. All too soon, she removed her fingers from the keyboard and stood up from the bench to take a bow. I felt my eyelids being lifted forcibly, the fantasy I was immersed in shattering like a glass bottle. I almost let out a cry of dismay when I realized what had happened, the only thing keeping me from doing so my own hand clamping my lips shut.

I refused to believe that this was the end of her performance. I did not want it to be, and the bittersweet applause of the audience told me that they felt the same. In less than two minutes, this young girl had managed to bring tears to everyone's eyes. Surely this would not be the end of such a talented, brilliant performer.

But she was to disappoint. After taking her bow, she scanned the crowd one last time with those eyes of hers before departing from the stage. Without a single word, another gesture, or even a smile of any sort, she left. Without noise, as if she were gliding on air. Like an apparition or a phantom that had come to play the piano and nothing else.

None of the other performers that day had left an impact close to the performance that the young girl had left on me. I was delighted to see her appear one last time when they were handing out the awards. When the host began to describe her to the crowd before calling her name, I readied myself to hear her name so that I would never forget the name of the girl that had singlehandedly, and with ease, brought an entire theater to tears in the span of five seconds.

I heard her name, clear as day, as she was called to receive her award. As she walked onstage to stand beside her fellow pianists with the golden trophy in her hands and a forced smile for the flashing cameras and smartphones, I put her face to the name that I had so desperately carved into my brain and imprinted it in my heart so that I would never forget her.

As I looked at her face one last time, I finally understood.

She had not come here to play for the crowd. She had not come here to win an award. She had not come here to this theater because she had been forced to.

She had come here to play for someone. Whether that someone was here or not, she had played that song for them. It was a song dedicated to someone she held dear, and it was a song I believed was dedicated to someone that was no longer with her.

Perhaps that person had passed on, I thought.

As she began to leave the stage again, I couldn't help but feel surprised that no one was here for her. No parents, no friends, no relatives were here to take her picture, pat her on the shoulder, or hug her to reward her for her brilliant performance. Nobody had stepped forth to even say anything to her.

I approached her in a rush before she could disappear behind the curtains, and I had asked her for a picture. She simply looked at me blankly and tilted her head before nodding once. I felt a surge of happiness that she had agreed to the picture, and I took one of her standing with the trophy held aloft along with one picture that was simply her. I had asked her if she wanted the picture but she simply shook her head. Without another word, she left the stage and was gone again.

I felt another pang of sadness upon seeing her leave. I knew not if I was going to see her again, the dazzling young girl with brown hair, brown eyes, and a talent far exceeding that of her peers. I wished in my heart that I might see her again.

Hopefully, next year, that lonely pianist would come here and play again. I remember wishing for that with all my heart.

Wishing that Alice would once again play the piano for us.


End file.
